


damnatio memoriae

by temporalDecay



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curses, Emhyr can't be anything other than himself, Geralt is worse, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 14:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: “May I walk the estate?” Emhyr repeated, and his nose crinkled in that familiar twitch of displeasure that Geralt had always secretly delighted in causing, despite how downright suicidal it was to invoke it on purpose. “I'm not going to run away,” he added, with a slight glare. “I'm merely bored.”“Oh,” Geralt said, eloquent. “Ah. Sure?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notavodkashot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/gifts).



> For my best partner in crime, a bit late because life sucks, but here's hoping you appreciate it nonetheless!
> 
> Happy Birthday, darling!

Winter in Toussaint was cold without snow. The fields were full of slumbering vines, curled up in a deep sleep, and it rained harsh enough even a witcher could only see a few paces ahead, but it was positively primaveral compared to the unrelenting blizzards that were surely doing their best to devour the remnants of Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt liked to spend his evenings sitting on the bench overlooking the main patio of Corvo Bianco, watching his household mill about with a certain air of laziness they only allowed themselves when the trees yellowed and the promise of hot supper was the highlight of their days. They were good people, they worked hard most of the year. Geralt didn't have it in himself to push them for more when the cold was seeping into his bones as well. 

Besides, the slow pace meant the work was split up tidily amongst them all, and Corvo Bianco's standing staff didn't need to shrink in the winter, like most of the neighboring vineyards did. 

“You're getting melancholic, witcher,” Marlene said teasingly, as she set a bowl of steaming stew on the small table. “They'll be here soon enough.” 

Geralt made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and returned her smile with a vaguely sheepish twitch of lips. 

“Company,” he said, after a moment, and then added, as she stared at him intently, “that's the point of wintering. Witcher wintering, any way. Good drink and warm food, and the company to properly enjoy it. A nice respite from the Path.” 

“And a good distraction from your daughter's coronation,” Marlene replied, dry but not unkind, eyebrows arched ever so slightly, “to which you were invited, thrice, and declined each time with a worse excuse.” 

“She's not my daughter,” Geralt said, with a stubborn though lackluster slant in his voice; Marlene had been in his service three years, now, she knew his lies better than he knew them himself. It was vaguely infuriating. 

“You're a good man, witcher,” Marlene said, with fond exasperation, “but as any man, you are also, on occasion, a _fool_.” 

“I'll visit in spring,” Geralt replied, and it sounded weak even to his own ears, “when things have settled down and she's got a chance to really think it through.” 

“Are you afraid she'd ask you to let her run away with you?” Marlene asked, eyes sharp and sly and unearthly younger than the rest of her face. Vivacious, he thought, was the right word for it, and for the umptenth time wondered what she'd been like, before the curse. “Or are you afraid you'd ask her yourself?” 

Geralt was saved from having to answer that, by the sudden, irritable hissing coming from the beneat his seat. It was Aldo, the old, perpetually angry cat that had come with Corvo Bianco and that Geralt hadn't had the heart to throw out, even if it took sixteen months for it to stop hissing bloody death at him, just for walking by. It liked to hiss contemptly at most of Geralt's friends and also throw itself claws first at all his enemies, so Geralt supposed it was a good judge of character, if nothing else. 

To be fair, most cats and a few unusually sly dogs would have been hard pressed to be friendly to the pair that was leisurely walking up the road to the main patio, no sign of horses or where they came from to be seen. Which was perfectly natural, considering they had, in fact, appeared out of nowhere, between one step and the next. 

“Regis,” Geralt called with a small wave as he pushed himself off the bench with a smile. “Dettlaff,” he added, with a sliver less warmth and a lot more wryness. 

Regis crossed the patio in three strides and wrapped Geralt into a tight hug. His companion followed after him but kept his prudent distance, and his eyes on the floor. He looked like a chastised child, profoundly embarrassed and yet weirdly pleased to be there, despite it all. 

“It's good to see you, my friend,” Regis said, pulling back to give Geralt a good look. “Retirement suits you, I should think, you look well.” 

“Retirement would imply he's ceased answering witcher contracts,” Marlene muttered, in a tone that made Geralt know she was nowhere near done pushing about his decision to not attend Ciri's coronation, “not that the whole of Toussaint has agreed to come post them at his door directly.” 

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asked Dettlaff, purposely ignoring Regis' precise and on point bow, as well as his affectionate ' _Lady Trastamara_ '. 

Dettlaff looked at him with a small, puzzled frown, arms hanging limply at his sides. He seemed to consider his words for a moment, before seemingly deciding that Geralt's question was in good faith – it was – and answering. 

“I saw her, this morning,” said the former Beast of Beauclair, dropping his gaze to the floor as he offered a thin sliver of a smile. “I thought I would... It matters not, now. It is done. I went to see her, in her tower, and I chose to turn away rather than...” He shrugged elegantly. “The anger remains, like you said it would, but so does my love for her.” He gave Geralt a searching, wonder-filled look. “ _It is as you said_ , witcher, I would regret it terribly, had she died in my hands, yet her current predicament is utmost amusing to me.” 

“I've loved a few sorceresses in my time,” Geralt said simply, offering back a not-so-elegant, but very sincere shrug. “It's not so different, from what you went through.” 

“I was made _kill,_ ” Dettlaff snarled, and then stopped, as Geralt reached a hand to grab his neck, not as a threat, but... friendly. Comforting even, as if it were a prelude to pulling him down into a hug. 

Dettlaff stilled, stared. 

“Like I said,” Geralt offered, a wry smirk on his mouth as he released his hold, “been there, done that.” He looked over at Regis, who was looking at him with bright, delighted eyes. “So how about we move out of the cold, and you tell me what you've been doing?” 

  


* * *

  


Eskel arrived three days later, half his left arm gnawed on by a chort and a look of insufferable calm on his face. 

Regis lectured four hours straight as he set out to fix the damage as best he could, and Dettlaff found himself fascinated by the methodical way Eskel told his story and the sincere lack of anger behind it. 

“Why would I be mad?” He said, his scars twitching as he offered Dettlaff an amused smirk, for his troubles. “It's dead and _I_ 'm not. My arm will heal and the payment was worth the effort, for once. I have enough to winter on my own if I cared to, even if I don't own a fancy estate.” 

“Fuck off, Eskel,” Geralt said fondly. 

  


* * *

  


Lambert came through Corvo Bianco a week later. 

He stayed only a night, which he spent drinking with Eskel and Regis, and then left the next day at an unhurried pace, with the sun already high in the sky. Keira Metz had been invited to the coronation of the new Empress of Nilfgaard, of course, as had been all the surviving members of the Lodge of Sorceresses. But Kiera Metz was not the kind to cross down the continent on horseback, and Lambert loathed portals almost as much as Geralt did. 

Geralt did not see Lambert, however, as he was at the time knee deep in nekker corpses as he cleared out a series of burrows beneath Mount Gorgon. 

“You're a strange man, witcher,” Dettlaff told him, as he watched him carefully and methodically strip the seemingly never ending pile of corpses into usable ingredients. 

“All men are strange,” Geralt said philosophically, smile wry despite the smear of blood down his chin and the putrid splatter of guts all over his armor. “Under the right circumstances.” 

  


* * *

  


It was Gaetan's first winter under Geralt's roof, in answer to an invitation Geralt had offered when he'd ran into him during his last tour of the North, before settling permanently in Toussaint. 

Geralt hadn't planned on it being his last visit to the North, but rather the first of his excursions out into the wild while having a base of operations in the South. He had imagined he would feel trapped or bored of the simple routine of running the estate, eventually. Or worse, guilty. Those first months after he delivered Dettlaff's right hand – which he had cut off himself, after Geralt stopped Regis from doing something unforgivable and thus putting both higher vampires squarely in his debt – to Anna Henrietta, with a lie perfectly tailored to serve the truth, he'd spent weeks waiting for his conscience to bite at him for it, yet it never came. 

He'd ran into Gaetan a few miles north of Byways, both going after the same bounty on an unusually large colony of drowners before getting tangled with a ridiculously large colony of _cannibals_ in Condyle. In the aftermath of that, Geralt hadn't thought much of it, but it had apparently taken the skittish cat witcher three years to talk himself into accepting the offer. 

Geralt was glad he had, and vaguely surprised by the feeling. Melancholy of the old age, he supposed, as he teached Dettlaff the nuances of gwent and heard Eskel and Regis slowly coax stories and good will from Gaetan. There weren't many witchers left out there, and there would be no new ones made again, not with the secrets lost and their keeps destroyed and conquered by time or intolerant kings. He couldn't help but feel a very real kinship to those few he had met... and hadn't ended up murdering in the end. 

“Why would you that?” Dettlaff asked, frowning at the cards laid out between them. “In passing you've essentially given me the round.” 

“Mhm,” Geralt said, offering a small smile. “See how much good it does you.” 

It was really very little good, in the end. Dettlaff hissed between his fangs after the fourth consecutive loss but the look he gave Geralt was not contempt, but pure respect. 

Then they moved over to the main table, which Marlene was delighted to have an excuse to fill up with platters until Geralt could swear the old wood was creaking under the strain. They ate and they drank, and well past midnight, Regis broke through Gaetan completely and drove the man from snickers to outright cackling with an old story Geralt knew was all the more funny because Regis refused to omit the crudest bits. 

Geralt drank slowly – _White Wolf_ , from Belgaard – and studied the table before him with a bone deep satisfaction: Regis melodious tones coaxing Gaetan's laughter, like spinning wool into threads, and Eskel's calm questions carefully pulling answers out of Dettlaff's thoughtful silence. And beneath that, the absolute certainty there was no safer place in the world than that room, three well-trained, experienced witchers and two higher vampires, without anything to prove. All that was missing was Zoltan and Dandelion, to complete the company, but though they would be willing if the necessity arose, they were also content with the lot they'd gotten, now that the Black Sun banners hung from Novigrad's walls. 

Geralt sidestepped the trecherous thought when it came, a few hours before dawn: he had the means to build a nigh impenetrable wall around anything he so chose, but he had nothing valuable enough to put there. 

The coronation was in two days, in the heart of Nilfgaard, which he couldn't reach in time unless he figured out a way to open a portal. 

He turned in his bed, and told himself it was for the best. 

  


* * *

  


The bells in Beauclair rang from dawn to dusk, the day the Empire shifted hands. 

Geralt spent the day deep underground, seeking out a supposed kikimore nest beneath the southern end of Corvo Bianco and did not return well into the night, without a single trophy to his name. 

His guests said nothing, though Marlene gave him a long suffering look and Barnabas-Basil offered to play gwent with him, until he was too drunk to tell what card belonged to which faction. 

_It was for the best._

  


* * *

  


Gaetan left a crisp, spring morning, saddlebags stocked and without the haunted look in his eyes. 

He clasped Geralt's hand firmly and promised to be back next winter, if Geralt would allow it. 

Then he rode off down the road, with a promise to stop by Novigrad and deliver Geralt's letters. 

  


* * *

  


Close to a month later, there was a sharp, impatient rapping on the front door. 

Geralt, who was by no means sober and yet the least drunk of his companions, made two attempts before he managed to reach the door. 

Emhyr var Emreis stood on the other side, face stern and eyes narrowed. 

Geralt slammed the door shut and pressed his face against it as he swore colorfully and eloquently under his breath. 

The sharp, impatient rapping echoed again. 

“Emhyr,” Geralt said, as he opened the door once more, and ignored the sudden sobering silence behind him. 

“So they claim,” the former Emperor replied, with a strained sort of contempt as he raised a hand and offered him a letter. 

Geralt took it. Read it. He was completely sober by the time he was done. 

“Shit,” he croaked, looking up at Emhyr, still standing calmly outside. 

Bizarrely, Emhyr smirked, small and tenuous but a smirk nonetheless. 

“Quite.” 

  


* * *

  


_Geralt,_

_I understand why you wouldn't be here, for the Coronation. Let me get that out of the way, now. I understand. I didn't, when I invited you, but I do now. Emhyr made me see how selfish and cruel I was being with that invitation, and I'm keenly sorry I did not understand sooner. I don't say that to try and make you sympathetic to the situation, because I know you much better than that. You'll do what I'm asking not because you feel endebted or coerced or because I promise a price. I know you'll do it because it's right. I know this because I would do it too, and it's from you that I learned that._

_My father has been cursed, Geralt. The moment the golden chains hung from my shoulders, Emhyr lost himself. He doesn't know who he is, who anyone else is, and even when told he refuses to believe it. I've spent a month steadily trying to figure out a way to undo this curse, but the effects have grown so, it's no longer safe to keep trying here. People are forgetting him. Or, rather, they're forgetting who he is. This morning the captain of the guard nearly had him executed for intruding in the imperial quarters. They know who my father is, but they don't know where he's gone, and now when he stands before them, they see... I don't know what they see, but it is not him. And all the while, he stands by, watching and refusing staunchly to even consider the possibility I might be telling the truth. I don't know how far the effects spread, but they seem gradual for now. Contained._

_I don't know how long I will remember him. I don't know how long I can protect him. So I've sent him to the only place I know he'll be safe, where no one will try to find an advantage to this. And I write this letter, now, here in the patio of Corvo Bianco, because I've realized that it would be cruel to tell you these things in person, understanding now, what I did not before._

_Please, save my father. Please. You've done more than enough for me and I love you dearly for it, and it is selfish and unbecoming of me to ask for more when you've given it all already but, please, Geralt. I trust no one else with his life._

_Ciri._

_P.S. I am an idiot and I forgot to add the actual wording for the curse. Don't tell him I did that, he will be_ insufferable _. Well, we think it's the actual wording of the curse, we're not actually sure. He wrote it down before he became... what he is now. And my father is not one for poetry, I don't think._

_Let your name fade from memory, your own thoughts escape your mind. Your glory days are over, for you will not conquer what has never yielded to you._

_P.S.S. I love you._

_P.S.S.S. Please don't kill my father._

  


* * *

  


Emhyr sat across the table, arms folded over his chest and expression vaguely indifferent, save for the fact that his eyes were sharp like daggers. 

There were two witchers and two vampires on Geralt's side of the room, and yet somehow, despite the now obviously lackluster clothes and the lack of jewelry or signs of office, Emhyr still looked like the most dangerous thing in attendance. 

“You've... been informed of the situation,” Geralt said, trying for neutral and still not quite getting it right. “I imagine.” 

“The ridiculous notion that's seduced away the Empress' good sense?” Emhyr asked, voice low but contemptuous nonetheless. “Yes, I have been informed.” 

“...well,” Geralt tried once more, and found himself smiling a sliver despite himself, “I suppose that saves me the trouble of asking how you feel about it.” 

“Indeed,” Emhyr replied, and arched both eyebrows as if challenging the witcher to ask, nonetheless. 

“Why are you still here, then?” Geralt asked instead, somewhat unbalanced by the sudden... expressionness of Emhyr's face. He was still stern and he was still somber, but there was an ease to his face now, that allowed his emotions to show where before Geralt had to consider himself satisfied by the slight twitch of a snarl in the Emperor's face. “If you think this is just a crock of shit?” 

“ _Geralt_ ,” Regis hissed at him, under his breath, while Eskel looked like he would be ill. 

Dettlaff stared at the procedings with an immense furrow on his brow, arms folded over his chest as he brooded from the furthest corner of the room. 

Emhyr blinked, instead, and then gave Geralt a look like he'd gone insane. 

“ _The Empress of Nilfgaard_ commands me here,” he said slowly, as if Geralt required small words to understand their meaning. “So I will remain here. Perhaps once you've exhausted your resources, you may stand a better chance than me, in making her see her folly.” 

There was a long moment of silence, before Geralt allowed himself a snort. It was hardly the time, but it was preferable to the fullblown hysterical cackle curled deep beneath his lungs. 

“Well,” he said, matching Emhyr's stoic face as best he could, “at least you're still fully human this time around.” Emhyr's eyebrows dipped down in confusion. Geralt ignored Regis' choked hiss or Eskel's barely bit back snort. “Nevermind.” 

  


* * *

  


“May I walk the estate?” Emhyr asked Geralt, on the fourth morning of his stay, and there was not a hint of mockery in his tone. 

Regis had dived into research with great enthusiasm – and, Geralt was quick to realize, bottomless amusement. The curse Emhyr was under was no laughing matter, clearly, but it was also not life-threatening. And no one who knew Emhyr, even just _of_ him, could deny the irony of it was... impressive. Nonetheless, Regis was diligent as he rummaged about the alchemy lab within the cellars, taking stock of the truly ridiculous number of books Geralt had collected without even meaning to. Eskel had left to hunt clues down south, closer to Nilfgaard, and possibly to keep an eye on Ciri in person, if he could. 

Dettlaff played gwent with an increasingly constipated Barnabas-Basil, who seemed entirely unsure of how to handle the presence of the (former) Emperor of Nilfgaard and his deadpan declarations he was not. The only one who seemed to be taking things in stride was Marlene, and only because Marlene had looked at Geralt in the eye and reminded him that he'd saved her, after all. 

“What?” 

Emhyr pursed his lips, expression sullen. Geralt stared at him and realized the man thought he was mocking him. 

“May I walk the estate?” Emhyr repeated, and his nose crinked in that familiar twitch of displeasure that Geralt had always secretly delighted in causing, despite how downright suicidal it was to invoke it on purpose. “I'm not going to run away,” he added, with a slight glare. “I'm merely bored.” 

“Oh,” Geralt said, eloquent. “Ah. Sure?” 

Emhyr raised an eyebrow, clearly judging his performance and finding it subpar. 

“Well, excuse me for not being used to you _asking_ things,” Geralt bit out somewhat sullenly, and found his irritation exacerbated further by the faintest hint of a sneer on Emhyr's face. 

“Because an Emperor demands, of course,” Emhyr replied, derison in his voice clearly stating what he thought of the idea, “never asks.” 

“Yes,” Geralt said, one eyebrow arched, “but there's also the fact you're a colossal asshole.” 

To his absolute shock, Emhyr snorted. Low and amused, deep in the back of his throat. Geralt couldn't rightly remember the last time he'd heard the man sound so close to laughter. 

“Is that how you speak to an Emperor?” He said, clearly mocking. 

Geralt found himself snorting back. 

“Not _an_ Emperor,” he replied, offering a one-shoulder shrug. “Just you. You always get the special treatment.” 

“His Imperial Majesty, _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ , the White Flame dancing over the graves of his foes, Emhyr var Emreis,” Emhyr said, ennunciating clearly and cleanly, “ _allowed_ you to treat him so.” 

“It's a long story,” Geralt said, strangely sheepish in ways that Emhyr's usual disdain never managed to make him feel. 

Emhyr pursed his lips. 

“It's a large estate,” he said, frowning slightly, “you might be able to tell the whole story before I'm done walking it.” 

  


* * *

  


“You're not human, are you?” Emhyr said, eyebrows arched as he watched Dettlaff sifting through the cards Barnabas-Basil had given him to set up his own deck. 

He was getting better at the game, though he admittedly still had trouble with the higher nuances of strategy. The cards slipped through his fingers slightly, before he looked up and stared intently at Emhyr. 

“...no,” Dettlaff replied, and frowned when Emhyr nodded and went back to his book. The silence stretched a little longer. “...is that all?” 

“Should it not?” Emhyr replied, still not looking away from the book in his hands. Dettlaff grunted softly, so he sighed. “Whatever you are, you are welcome under the witcher's roof.” 

“You trust him that much?” Dettlaff asked, frown deepening as he put down the cards and focused all his attention on Emhyr. 

“I trust the fact he is alive,” Emhyr said, with a small shrug to match his tone. “I would imagine he would not have lived so long, if he put his trust in the wrong... creatures.” 

Dettlaff was silent for a long moment, contemplating that answer. Emhyr passed a page and sank back into the words before him – an extensive encyclopedia on giant centipedes, which was hardly riveting but helped him pass the time. There was not much for him to do, in Corvo Bianco. He'd taken to walk around the paths in the vineyard in the morning, and retreat back into the house after noon, usually with a book stolen from the piles Regis seemed to live under by then. It was hardly ideal – though he had no real notion what _would_ be ideal, except not this – and he was criminally tired of indulging the ridiculous notion that he was someone he wasn't... even if he wasn't wholly clear on who he really was. But he was determined to endure it, if nothing else because once they invariably failed, he would be free to go and figure out the truth. The actual truth, not the ridiculous delusions of, well, everyone around him. 

He couldn't quite complain, all things considered. Those delusions came with some amusement, at least, when it came to people trying their very best to sidestep his temper. The food was excellent, he was free to wander around the admittedly beautiful estate, no one had yet declined to let him drink when he felt like it, and his chief concern at the moment was that he would run out of books to read before Regis gave up all together. He wasn't entirely certain what was he meant to do with the hoard of knowledge about monsters and the arcane that he was collecting, but he supposed he would figure out something once his life was once more his own. 

He was slightly fascinated by the author's segway into a rant about the decrease of what he termed endemic species and a distraught contemplation of what might happen once they were all gone. It was a ludicrous sentiment, he was sure, and he couldn't help being amused by it. 

“How did you know?” Dettlaff asked, breaking the silence as he continued to stare at him. Emhyr made a small inquisitive sound in the back of his throat. “That I'm not...” 

Emhyr gave him a thoughtful look. 

“You carry yourself like a child, when you forget yourself,” he said, eyes sharp as he pinned Dettlaff in place. “When you're startled or unsure how to proceed, you look for guidance from your peers. You look to make sure either Regis or Geralt approve of what you intend to do, before you do it, be it something as menial as thanking Marlene for your plate. Yet you are not a child, merely unused to the trappings of social conduct. You listen avidly to others and talk very little yourself; not damning evidence, in itself, but in conjunction with everything else, it does make one think you find it troubling, to act in company you do not know well. Or that doesn't know you well. It's the behavior of someone with a secret to keep, but one they don't understand entirely why they should keep, in the first place.” Dettlaff frowned and found himself folding his arms defensively over his chest. “Don't do that,” Emhyr told him, a hint of a smile to his lips. “It's defensive and all but confirms everything I just said.” 

“You are very... observant,” Dettlaff said hoarsely, even as he dropped his arms to his lap. 

“I am excruciatingly bored,” Emhyr confessed, “it is hardly my fault your strange behavior is the most interesting thing to concentrate my attention on.” 

Dettlaff pondered that thought for a moment, before he sighed. 

“Gwent is a decent pastime, I've found,” he said, nodding at the cards spread before him. “Though it is entirely possible it's simply because I'm new to its nuances.” 

Emhyr made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat as he gave the leader card pile a disdainful look. 

“...on the condition Nilfgaard is banned from the endevor.” 

Despite it all, Dettlaff found himself smiling wryly. 

“You needn't worry, I favor Monsters myself.” 

  


* * *

  


By the start of the second month, Emhyr had narrowed down Dettlaff – and possibly Regis, though the man was certainly less obvious about it – as either dopplers or vampires, and he was leaning heavily on the second, if only for the great care Dettlaff took to appear as unthreatening as possible. 

He'd also found himself having fallen into something of a routine, now. 

“Given up yet?” he would ask Geralt, in some variation, tone condescending as he finished his breakfast every morning. 

“Nope,” Geralt would reply, surprisingly congenial about the whole affair. 

And then Emhyr would go off to walk through the vineyard, read Regis' books, play Dettlaff at gwent, and taunt Geralt into sharing a story or two. The food was still excellent, the wine was still free, his bed was still comfortable, and they were all still staunchy convinced he was someone he wasn't. 

If it wasn't all so dreadfully _boring_ , he would be quite content with his lot in life. As it was, however, he couldn't help but hope something interesting happened. 

Something that broke the routine, at least. 

Starting on the tenth week of his stay at Corvo Bianco, Regis announced dejectedly that he'd ran out of leads. It wasn't exactly what Emhyr had had in mind, admittedly, but it certainly upset the monotony of his life at that point. He was surprised to realize he was annoyed by Regis' departure to Novigrad, promising to reach out to friends and consult their expertise on those matters, as Dettlaff also chose to follow. There went two of his pastimes in his already cavernously empty days, gone. 

“You've actually grown fond of them, haven't you?” Geralt pointed out, as they watched them walk towards the main road at a surprisingly leisure pace. 

He sounded amused, at his expense. 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Emhyr snapped back, out of habit rather than any real sentiment. He offered a mild sneer for Geralt's trouble. “I am not the fool who befriends monsters.” 

“No,” Geralt replied, dryly, “you're the fool who makes them, usually.” 

Emhyr pursed his lips in displeasure, but rather than argue the point, he turned back inside the house, in search of the book he'd started the day before, without a word. 

  


* * *

  


They went to Beauclair the next day. 

Ostensibly, so the witcher could take his armor for repairs and also buy Marlene some herbs and spices she'd asked for. 

Emhyr was not fooled by _ostensibly_. 

He rode the horse that Geralt led by walking by its side, and recognized halfway through the trek into the city that the witcher was probably trying to apologize. He was irritated and amused, at once, and he realized much to his chagrin that really was how Geralt made him feel, most of the time. Irritated by his smug, downright offensive certainty of who he was, but nonetheless amused most of the time, because the witcher could be witty when he tried. 

“You're taking this better than I did,” Geralt said, as a token peace offering, “losing your memories, I mean.” He paused awkwardly. “Well, you haven't started any wars, at least.” 

Emhyr stared down at him, studying him carefully. He'd come to realize, soon after he arrived at Corvo Bianco – as soon as five minutes in his presence, really – that Geralt was an honest man. There was no point in studying him in depth, since unlike many of the people in his household, he didn't seem to have much to hide. Or at least lacked the impetus to hide it. Thus, despite the fact the remark had irritated him, he found himself realizing he'd already dismissed it. 

It would be silly not to, after all. Despite Geralt's insistance that he was someone he couldn't possibly be, the man had offered his hospitality quite freely and Emhyr found he'd grown fond of him, despite their frequent clashes of wit every now and then. 

“Why would I?” He said, offering a shrug, “have I not run out of things to conquer in the first place?” 

“Don't remind me,” Geralt replied wryly, though he seemed to relax, despite it all. “This curse of yours would be a lot easier to figure out, if there were anyone or anything left in the goddamn continent that hasn't already yielded to you, one way or another.” 

Emhyr found himself smirking. 

“There's Skellige,” he pointed out, feeling gratified when Geralt flinched on reflex, like he'd expected him to. “No black sun flies there, I believe.” 

“If you think-” Geralt began, sharp and vicious, before he stopped abruptly, pursing his lips. “You're joking,” he said instead, scowling accusingly as if this was some great sin Emhyr was committing. “You're _joking_.” 

Emhyr allowed himself a small laugh. 

“Perhaps.” 

Geralt sighed, shoulders slumping slightly as he relaxed. 

“Bastard,” he muttered, but Emhyr caught the twitch of laughter in the corner of his mouth. 

He felt quite satisfied by that. 

  


* * *

  


Emhyr was quite entertained by the fact people were far more interested in the witcher than him. He was grudgingly willing to accept that no Emperor would agree to parade about in the simple, practical clothes he'd claimed as his own, but that was just another way of reiterating what he was not. But people noticed Geralt, no matter where he went, much more than Geralt seemed to notice them, too. 

The smith was effusive and quite happy to be of service, though he offered Geralt a few choice words about the impressive set of clawmarks now adoring the back of the gamberson he'd brought to fix. The merchants around the market square would offer their wares and haggle with him more as a sport than any real need. A few of the guardsmen stopped them during the day, but only to inquire after Geralt's health and maybe offer to buy him a drink later in the evening. 

“It adores you,” Emhyr said, as they sat in the balcony of the Pheasantry and enjoyed their lunch, well into the afternoon. Geralt made a questioning sound in the back of his throat. “Beauclair,” Emhyr clarified, and arched his eyebrows when Geralt gave him a squinting look. “It adores you.” 

Geralt replied with an awkward shrug and Emhyr was terribly amused by the realization that he'd managed to embarrass the witcher, somehow. 

The moon was high in the sky, that night, as they walked back the road towards Corvo Bianco. Geralt – and by extension, Emhyr, as being in his company apparently made him intrinsically worth the same treatment – had drunk with the guard and even accepted a few challengers in both gwent and fists, whom he'd defeated handily. 

Emhyr had been oddly interested in the contrast of both disciplines, and mildly impressed by the witcher's obvious skill in them. Somehow it wasn't as contradictory as it might seem, on first glance. Emhyr knew the witcher was, by necessity, a fearsome opponent, considering his trade was fighting creatures who were just as or even more fearsome than him. But he was also terribly astute when he put the full weight of his mind behind it. The witcher was smart and the witcher was strong, and Emhyr had no reason to care about either, except that somehow, he did.

It was terribly obnoxious, so he decided summarily to ignore it all together. 

  


* * *

  


A few days later, Emhyr found himself staring down his nose at the man pointing the sword at his chest. 

He probably shouldn't, all things considered. They were armed, and he was not. But still. It galled him somewhat. It gnawed at his nature, a job poorly done, even if it was robbery or murder, or whatever this was meant to be. The man was thin and scarred, with a filthy bandana wrapped around his face in a poor attempt to hide his face. It only served to make his eyes look all the more frantic and desperate, and Emhyr wondered, irritably, if he was to be the man's first mark. 

“Don't look much like a herbalist to me,” the man still riding his horse, and apparently leading the whole expedition, muttered with a slight glare. 

Emhyr resisted the urge to say exactly what he thought about that. 

“'course he don't,” snapped the moron with the sword, glaring at the other, “this be a _witcher's_ herbalist.” 

“Eh, doesn't matter,” the man on horseback said stiffly, “all Loth wants is a twit from Corvo Bianco.” 

Emhyr wasn't sure what was worse, the apparent reasoning behind the assault on his person, or the fact out there, there was someone stupid enough to pick a fight with a _witcher_. 

He supposed he should make sure to survive the ordeal, if only to enjoy the spectacle when the inevitable came to pass. 

  


* * *

  


It took Geralt nearly four days to realize Emhyr was missing. 

He'd gone to Coronata, to answer a notice requesting his services disposing of a troubling resurgence of Archespores in the northest corners of the vineyard. He'd left Emhyr behind without a second thought, forgetting he was no longer guarded by vampires and witchers despite the continuous calm of their days. Emhyr had been unruffled by the announcement that he was leaving, even promising mockingly not to conquer his estate from under him, when he wasn't looking. 

“Ciri is going to kill me,” Geralt told no one in particular, following the trail with morose determination. 

  


* * *

  


He found Emhyr at the end of the trail, standing inside an iron cage and patiently fiddling with the lock with a needle and an ornate golden hairpin, which he had no idea where he'd gotten it from, and surrounded on all sides by corpses. Geralt stared. 

“The gentlemen with the green shirt has the key in his pocket, if you don't mind,” Emhyr said calmly, eyebrows arched as Geralt slowly walked up to him. He offered a wry smile. “Picking locks is actually more complicated than most books would make it seem.” 

“There's a trick to it,” Geralt said, walking over to the man in said green shirt, whose face was frozen in a look of both horror and pain, and retreiving the key without having to search too deep into his pockets. “It's all about weighing the tumblers and waiting for the right click.” He found himself adding, as he opened the cage, “kinda hard to do from the other side, though.” 

Emhyr shrugged eloquently. 

“They were under the impresion I was the new herbalist in Corvo Bianco,” he explained, as Geralt kept looking at him with an intense, piercing look. “I saw fit not to disabuse them of the notion. One of Regis' tomes about Toussaint's plantlife was most emphatic about the dangers of some of its flowers.” Emhyr found he enjoyed the look of surprise on Geralt's face. “They were all too eager to taste a potion fit for a witcher, before their attempt to raid Fox Hollow, and I was quite happy to comply.” 

Geralt laughed at the absurdity of it, and laughed harder when he realized Emhyr's own chuckles were echoing his own. 

“Come on,” he said, shaking his head. “Let's get you home.” 

A strange expression crossed Emhyr's face, at that, and he remained where he was, rather than follow Geralt's lead. 

“Did you come here prepared for a fight?” He asked, frowning slightly and deciding instead to side step the strange thoughts curling in the back of his mind. He shrugged. “These are hardly the entirety of their band,” he said, nodding at the corpses stewned around the clearing. They spoke of a cavern further ahead. If you wish, your preparation needs not be in vain.” 

“Emhyr-” 

“I'm hardly suggesting I'll charge in with you,” he added, rolling his eyes to punctuate the ludicrousness of that statement. “I am not a witcher and I highly doubt I could keep up with one, but we are here already. If I can be trusted with a bow and some high ground, I might perhaps even be of some assistance in the task at hand.” 

Geralt started to say no, but he found himself pinned in place by Emhyr's steady gaze. He was angry, he realized. Offended deeply by the crude attempts to kidnap him. Geralt licked his lips and sighed. 

“Stay out of sight, no matter what,” he muttered in defeat, and watched disconcerned as Emhyr nodded once and went about confiscating a bow and a quiver from one of the dead men. 

  


* * *

  


They found a cave system, three miles north of the camp Emhyr had been kept in. The caves opened into cliffs at points, and they had been sealed with iron gratings where they did. There was no way to safely break into the den below from where they were, so Geralt left Emhyr there – the higher ground he'd wanted, he'd pointed out – and went around the hill, looking for the entrance. 

  


* * *

  


“Show off,” Geralt said, loud enough the sound carried along the rock walls up to the grating above. 

An arrow landed at his feet, in lieu of actual words. Given arrows had landed no less than ten times right in the eyes or necks of bandits in the past two hours, he couldn't take the gesture like a real threat and realized it was almost a jest. 

He laughed even as he rubbed his face with one hand, and then slid his sword on his back. 

“Come on,” he said, again, allowing his voice to echo. “You wanted to be here, you might as well help with the cleanup.” 

  


* * *

  


“You do this for a living,” Emhyr said dryly, trying to cover up the fact he was struggling to drag a corpse towards the remarkably neat lineup Geralt was forming in the largest cave of the system. 

“It's a living,” Geralt replied, shrugging. 

He'd guided Emhyr as he methodically strip searched the entire place and classified all goods found around in the cave as he set them out in neat piles as if awaiting inspection: food, herbs, weapons, coin, materials and loot of all kind. Then he'd started to pull the corpses in their own pile, and though he hadn't been particularly careful when he'd dispatched them, he seemed almost... respectful as he put their bodies to rest in a line, for ease of identification. 

Once they were done – and Emhyr admitted he was sincerely impressed by the witcher's prowess, those were close to fifty corpses nealty lining up the cavern's walls – Geralt went and opened the grating door that faced the forest and the road, and stepped outside without having taken a single coin from the piles back in the cavern. He set up a small fire a clearing nearby, and then threw some powder into the flames that made them roar higher and the smoke turn brigt red. 

Within the hour, a platoon of ducal guards arrived, lead by a man whose face seemed to have been clawed apart at some point. They ignored him entirely, so Emhyr contented himself with studying the procedures carefully. Geralt walked the captain – Damien de la Tour was his name, apparently – through the web of caves and detailed to him exactly what had transpired and what he'd found in each of them. Emhyr studied the satisfied look on Geralt's face as the ducal guard carried off everything from the caves, from loot to corpses, and found himself not arguing when Geralt pulled him up his horse as they started the long road. 

“I thought witchers did not work for free,” he muttered, one arm wrapped around the man and the other still holding onto his borrowed bow. 

He found he wasn't in a hurry to let go of it, just yet. Either of them. 

“We don't,” Geralt snorted. “I get a ten per cent of the total amount of the goods recovered, paid directly from the ducal treasury. That just means Damien gets the fun part of tracking down the owners of everything we recovered.” Geralt paused and looked over his shoulder, giving Emhyr a considering look. “Did pretty well with that bow back there, by the way. Didn't know you were trained.” 

“Maybe I was a hunter, before I lost my memory,” Emhyr considered carefully, gauging the glint in Geralt's eye. “It seemed... natural, at the time. And I do admit it came with ease to me.” 

“Mhm,” Geralt said, which Emhyr knew was Geralt's shorthand for _you're deluding yourself again but I'm not in the mood to fight you over it._

“Shut up,” Emhyr said instead, resting his forehead against the vast expanse of the witcher's back. 

“Didn't say anything,” Geralt pointed out helpfully, strangely unruffled by the sudden touch. It was hard to be wary of someone, after they'd helped you kill nearly four dozen men. 

“Hn.” 

  


* * *

  


They made it to Castel Ravello by midnight. Geralt felt perfectly comfortable in his ability to keep riding all the way back to Corvo Bianco, but Emhyr was having greater trouble concealing his exhaustion. It made Geralt feel vaguely like an ass, for not thinking about it earlier, so he slid off his mount and as casually as possible made sure Emhyr did not slam face first into the dirt as he did. He had a talk with the new steward, who looked at him half with fear but mostly with good will, and summarily offered them a room to pass the night in. 

Emhyr was asleep almost before his was finished lying his head down, and Geralt found himself staring at him as he slept for the better part of an hour, until he realized that was vaguely creepy and sat down to meditate the night away instead. 

In the morning, they set out to Corvo Bianco once more, but this time Geralt fully intended to let Emhyr ride alone. Emhyr surprised him by refusing. 

So they went, looking vaguely ridiculous, as they held to the reins on each side of Roach's bite, walking down the road. 

“He's a gift from you,” Geralt said a few hours later, seemingly surfacing from the depths of his mind. “Roach.” Emhyr made an inquiring noise in the back of his throat, as if to ask what had made the witcher feel the need to share. “Wouldn't let me walk away without something, even when I told you I didn't want anything.” 

“Yet somehow you sound irritated by a terrible burden,” Emhyr deadpanned, though there was a sliver of a smile at the corner of his lips, and Geralt knew instantly that he didn't mean it. Not really. 

“It's... complicated,” Geralt said instead, shrugging. “You're bloody complicated.” 

“Emperors are entitled to be, I believe,” Emhyr said tauntingly, then shrugged pointedly when Geralt stared at him. “But what would I know.” 

“I've met kings and emperors and pretty much a great deal of heads grown big under their crowns,” Geralt said morosely, “but yours was the only one I could never figure out properly.” 

“How dare I,” Emhyr replied dryly, though the smile remained. “I fear you are bound to be terribly disappointed, when this little endeavor of yours ends up in nothing.” 

Emhyr realized Geralt was staring down at him with an unhappy frown. He caught his eye, raising a shoulder with a twitch, as if inviting Geralt to elaborate, but the witcher merely scowled darkly and shook his head. 

“Wouldn't be the first time,” he said, eventually, when he'd managed to temper the bitterness into something almost wry. 

Emhyr did him the kindness of not asking, and Geralt was as annoyed as he was grateful for it. 

  


* * *

  


“And who might the gentlemen be?” Barnabas-Basil asked him, one hot summer morning, as Emhyr sat on his favorite bench and studied the workers milling about with a thoughtful, vaguely threatening look in his eye. 

Geralt stared at his majordomo, a little lost at the sharp reminder of the curse spreading when he wasn't looking. He'd spent nearly four months carefully studying all he could about Emhyr's life, trying to find something that could fit the requirements of the curse to break it. There was, unsurprisingly for a man who'd essentially conquered the world, a lot to go through. 

“...a friend,” Geralt said eventually, sighing. “He's to have free run of the estate.” Barnabas-Basil stared at him at that, and Geralt shrugged, vaguely defensively, in reply. “Just... let him do whatever he wants?” 

The majordomo recovered faster than he did, but by then Geralt was used to that. Was counting on it, in fact. 

“Of course, sir,” he said, offering a small bow, “I'll see to it.” 

Geralt left to answer a ducal notice about a monster reported west of Fort Astre ruins, and figured Emhyr would be alright. 

  


* * *

  


Emhyr went for his usual walk around the estate and when he returned, found his possessions, meager as they were, had been relocated from the guest room upstairs to the witcher's own. He also noticed the fact the majordomo seemed to no longer have any trouble looking at him in the face, nor he stuttered at every request he made, though he was definitely content to fulfill them. 

He sat on the witcher's empty bed and studied his room: it was a lot like the witcher, really, pratical, vaguely stern and with an undercurrent of whimsy – that sure was a very... classical painting of the witcher, tucked in a corner of the room. It took Emhyr five seconds to put two and two together and realize that Geralt, in his eminent, terrible, blunt _Geralt_ way, must have given his majordomo the absolute worst impression as to his relationship with Emhyr. He could, of course, correct the misunderstanding entirely. 

Or he could give into the pettiness and make the witcher squirm for a bit. The thought had a strange appeal. 

He decided in the end that the matter could wait until Geralt came back from slaughtering whatever it was he was meant to be slaughtering. Instead, he turned to books to entertain himself with, but soon enough there were none left, because sadly Emhyr had gone through all already. He took advantage of his presence in the witcher's quarters to look for something else to read, and only found the shuffled, disorganized pile of paperwork relating to the estate. Emhyr's soul keenly abhorred untidiness, so he set out to sort them out and that was how he began to look over the contracts associated with Corvo Bianco. Services and suppliers, and also the small group of stores willing to stock up on the wines they were finally producing. The wording was barroque and complicated, full of allusions to things the writers considered common enough knowledge not to include even as a footnote. Emhyr spent the next week pestering Barnabas-Basil for clarifications and sitting through his tangents into the history of Corvo Bianco with increasingly shortened patience each turn. The lore of the estate was fascinating, of course, but not when Emhyr just wanted to know what “the year of the elm” and “duchal oak prices” meant, exactly. 

He moved onto the books of the estate, then. The actual income ledgers. Barnabas-Basil no longer left his side, at that point. 

“Is he aware of this?” Emhyr asked him, once he was done, pinning the man down with the implacable stare of a man on a mission. 

Why he was on such a mission was a mystery, even to himself, but he felt a strange sort of familiarity, in handling such things. It felt like something he could do, and more over, _should_. 

“I honestly don't know,” Barnabas-Basil sighed, coming to sit next to Emhyr and his giant pile of papers and books. “I've tried to explain but... when coin runs low he finds something that needs... _witchering_ and he provides what's necessary to keep us afloat.” He shrugged slightly, as if remembering himself, and added, “though I suppose it is not a problem if the ducal treasury will continue to offer support until the estate is self-sufficient once more.” 

“Which will be sometime in the next _two centuries_ , at the rate you're going,” Emhyr bit out viciously. “Why haven't new contracts been drafted? Or if necessary, why not request leave for export? He's got contacts in Novigrad and is on first name terms with _the Empress of Nilfgaard_.” 

“He dislikes legalities, complications,” Barnabas-Basil replied, wincing at the thoughts he'd often entertained being voiced by someone other than himself. 

“Which means he has a solicitor to do this for him,” Emhyr summarized, deadpan. 

Barnabas-Basil considered his options carefully, but the calculative, predatory look in Emhyr's eye convinced him pretty quickly that the man was prepared to take things to their last consequence. He swallowed hard. 

“I'll summon him, immediately.” 

  


* * *

  


The solicitor turned out to be an old, forgetful, irritating man with a proclivity to sneer and a very familiar tendency for overly complex turns of phrase. 

Emhyr fired him three words in. 

Barnabas-Basil wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to do such a thing, but then, Geralt had told him explicitly to just... let him do as he pleased. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't going to get fired himself, if he wasn't careful. 

Emhyr fired the next four solicitors Barnabas-Basil suggested, over the course of two weeks, and when his irritation finally won out, rode out to Beauclair to find a suitable one himself. He came back with new contracts drafted and scheduled deliveries that required the tenuous, calm pace of Corvo Bianco to be drastically changed. 

“I don't think we can actually meet these deadlines,” Barnabas-Basil said, when he finished reading the arrangements Emhyr's new solicitor had drafted, “not even working double shifts.” 

“Then hire more workers,” Emhyr replied sharply, and then, after a moment of thoughtful deliberation, added: “Perhaps not this year. I know the witcher is... particular about his staff. And there is no hurry to fulfill all the contracts just yet. But in two or three years, the demand will have certainly increased, so prepare for that.” 

Barnabas-Basil pursed his lips slightly and studied Emhyr carefully. There was a nagging itch in the back of his head that he couldn't quite reach, something about the simple, practical clothes he wore and the frightening intelligence shining clear behind is eyes. Whatever this man was, this was clearly _not_ just it. 

“Why are you doing this?” He asked, because his loyatly, he found, was to the witcher and he would not allow himself to commit to something that could, one day, cause his master regret. 

Emhyr gave him an oddly serene look. 

“Because it needs doing,” he said, offering a small shrug as he spread out the new contracts on the desk and beckoned him to look at them, “and there was no one else to do it.” 

  


* * *

  


Geralt came back three weeks later, armor crusted in grime and blood, and expression a careful balance of annoyance and exhaustion. He found Emhyr lying on his bed, reading by the light of a flickering candle, and stared. 

“...fuck it,” he said, pulling roughly at buckles and ties as he peeled off the layers of leather and iron, “this isn't even in the top ten of weird shit I've gone through.” 

“I feel insulted, somehow,” Emhyr muttered wryly. “I-” he began, but trailed off as Geralt removed his shirt and revealed the extent of the damage he'd taken. “That looks... painful,” he said lamely, for lack of anything more significant to add. 

“Emhyr,” Geralt said dryly, as he slid into the unoccupied side of the bed, “shut up.” 

Emhyr pursed his lips in annoyance, but by the time he'd composed a suitable reply, Geralt had passed out. He glared at the man, out of habit really, for all the good it did, and then went back to his book. 

Tomorrow was going to be interesting, at the very least. 

  


* * *

  


Emhyr awoke to find himself under the scrutiny of cat-like golden eyes, which were eerie but not particularly threatening. He wasn't quite sure why he never really found himself intimidated by the witcher – or his friends – but he supposed so long as he didn't prove himself particularly monstrous, the witcher had no ill will towards him. Which always struck him as something of a joke, really, since the witcher was still firmly set in his delusions that he was the Emperor of Nilfgaard – well, former emperor – and one needed to be particularly monstrous or at least considerably vicious to accomplish all he had. 

“Why are you in my bed?” Geralt asked, puzzled rather than angry. 

“Because your majordomo thinks we're fucking,” Emhyr said bluntly, eyebrows arched, “and I was feeling petty enough I decided you should correct that misconception.” 

“Right,” Geralt replied, wincing for a moment, before he went right back to staring. “Except you're _still_ in my bed.” 

Emhyr stared right back at him, and even without witcher mutations, his eyes were as eerie to Geralt, as Geralt's were to him. 

“Mhm.” 

Geralt licked his lips. 

“You have a consort,” he said, even as he pulled Emhyr closer, and Emhyr was irritated at himself for the small hoot of surprise the ease of the movement caused him, “well you had. At some point.” It was absurd how easily Emhyr slid onto his lap. “I think she died.” 

The wounds on his side were still stinging, but no longer the deep, cleaving hits that had nearly gut him. And he liked the sound Emhyr made, when he moved him exactly where he wanted him. 

It was a terrible idea, obviously, but then, Geralt was riding a trail of terrible ideas that had started with him hunting down a spriggan haunting an old dilapidated farm and had somehow ended with him wet, angry and chasing after a goddamn fiend in the remnants of Crookbag Bog. He felt like he deserved something nicer than the pile of old misery chronicled in rotten journals and the scraps of rusted junk he'd sold to cover his trip. 

And Emhyr fit so _nicely_ in his lap, staring down at him with those sharp eyes that seemed to see right through him, always. 

“I suppose,” Emhyr replied, finding enough balance to grind down, “that if I were whom I most certainly am not, I would feel terribly inconvenienced by that.” 

“No, you wouldn't,” Geralt bit out breathlessly, rolling them onto the bed so he could loom over him properly, “you'd...” 

Emhyr dug his fingers into Geralt's hair and sneered at him. From up close, the provocation was quite distinct. 

“Stop worrying about what _he_ 'd do and start focusing on what _I_ 'm doing,” he snapped viciously, and the kiss that followed was more teeth than tongue, and yet all the more welcome because of it. 

  


* * *

  


Emhyr made a dispairing quip about witcher stamina sometime mid morning, so they had to settle for a very late lunch that Marlene served with a straight face and a sly smirk. 

  


* * *

  


“Didn't you promise not to conquer this place from under me?” Geralt demanded, once he was informed of Emhyr's actions in his absence. 

“I wasn't under you when it happened,” Emhyr replied with a bland smile that only widened when the witcher spluttered awkwardly, “and in any case, any so call conquering I'm doing at this moment, is mostly for your benefit.” 

Geralt wasn't so sure of that. 

  


* * *

  


They didn't fulfill all the contracts, by the time deliveries were scheduled, but as Barnabas-Basil discovered, that wasn't really a problem, since a third of those contracts were just Emhyr buying back their nonexistent stock. The reason did not become any clearer, as he had bought at least half of their existing stock as well, and then promptly had it distributed as gifts to select individuals, most of whom Geralt didn't quite remember but that apparently remembered _him_ quite fondly. He hadn't objected at all, when Emhyr nudged him to send a few bottles to Ciri, either. Geralt took a month to do so, if only because he'd taken it as an excuse to write her a letter to go with it, and he needed to get his thoughts in order, somehow. About her throne, about his life, about _Emhyr_... 

Geralt decided perhaps that was a conversation that didn't need to be had, in the end. After all, once Emhyr was cured, his priorities would certainly change and who knew if he would even remember what he'd done during the curse. Geralt was keenly aware that when a person lost their memory, they often did things they regretted, when they recovered it. He sincerely doubted Emhyr would have him killed, just because they'd finally had that long overdue shag, albeit, thirty years late, but that didn't mean Geralt was in the mood to court his temper. 

Just the rest of him, apparently. 

He sent the letter, insisted Barnabas-Basil let Emhyr run the estate however he wanted and sank back into his scrutiny of the Emperor's life, looking still for something that had never yielded to him. Not him, obviously, considering they kept sharing a bed, despite Geralt's certainty it was a terrible idea. He supposed he was just destined to find out what Triss had felt, when he'd broken up with her after regaining his memory. He tried pulling back, in preparation for the inevitable, but Emhyr would glare him into submission when he did, and before Geralt knew what had possessed him to do it, he would be kissing him again instead. 

It was madness, but then, Geralt had something of an acquired taste for it, by that point. 

  


* * *

  


It took another two months for a reply to arrive, during which Geralt allowed himself to be dragged into a surprisingly easy routine of arguing with Emhyr about nothing in particular and then going off to kill something when the arguing was bad enough the sex didn't fully make up for it. 

Ciri's letter was warm if short, but alarming all the same: she insisted her father was vacationing somewhere... north, and that she had no prior knowledge of any curse. She thanked Geralt for the wine, nonetheless, and promised to look into it and make sure no harm came to him. 

“So the Empress has seen sense at last?” Emhyr asked, eyebrows arched tauntingly. 

“The curse has caught up with her, more like,” Geralt retorted, scowling thunderously and then stopped, considering. “Which you _would_ consider sense, I suppose.” 

The silence stretched until Emhyr realized he was being subjected to a very cautious look from the witcher. 

“What?” He demanded, with that same straightforward bluntness that hadn't been softened at all by long, lazy mornings in bed, arguing the influence game he was playing with the merchant guilds. 

“You said you were staying because the Empress herself ordered you to,” Geralt pointed out warily, carefully, as if Emhyr were a great, dangerous beast that would lash out at the smallest provocation, “that you wished to leave once she saw things your way.” 

Emhyr returned the favor by looking at Geralt like he was a great, stupid beast that evoked pity rather than fear. Frustrated pity, at that. 

“You are an idiot,” he said, in place of anything more damning, and made sure to roll his eyes as he slid out of bed. “I think I'll go back to argue with the dwarves today, they should prove more reasonable than you.” 

“Ouch,” Geralt replied, and couldn't quite wipe off the small smile for the rest of the day. 

  


* * *

  


Before Geralt knew it, winter had stretched itself comfortably across the valley again. He found himself sitting on his bench, watching people mill about, only this year they had more than enough work to keep them busy as they prepared to handle the increased workload, and there was a warm body sitting right next to him. Geralt supposed it wasn't all that terrible, if it gave Emhyr something to do and it didn't end up with someone dead. It was terribly domestic, and he wasn't sure why he liked it. He'd never liked domestic things. This was the kind of life that Yen would have liked to have, retired from politics and affairs of state, and instead focusing all their energy into something far less dire but no less entertaining in its own way. 

He tried to imagine himself sharing his life with Yen, from time to time, and even with Triss, when he was feeling particularly morose in trying to chronicle Emhyr's life. But he just couldn't see it. He wondered if he was mad, but then decided if he was, it was the kind of madness to be relished before it ended. 

“Honestly,” Emhyr muttered, side-eying the book in Geralt's hands, “at this rate someone would be justified in thinking you're in love with the former Emperor of Nilfgaard.” 

It was meant as a taunt, the kind of jab he liked to deliver because it rouse Geralt into flexing his wit beyond his appalling taste in puns. That morning, it fell flat. 

Mostly because Geralt tugged his head closer, kissed him right there in the open, and said: 

“Yeah, I guess I kinda am.” 

Emhyr shoved the book at him, hard. 

“Then I should leave you both alone, then.” 

And stalked away to hiss angrily anyone he could find, who wasn't doing their job like they should. He was only further irritated by the realization the workers had learned to fear his temper, and so not a single step was out of line in the entire estate. Corvo Bianco functioned like a clockwork, but the jolt of satisfaction just wasn't there. 

Geralt needled him into a row about trading taxes, after dinner, and Emhyr knew damn well he was being condescended to but couldn't help taking the chance to let lose his temper anyway. 

And later, much later, as they laid panting and sweating on the bed, he grabbed Geralt by the hair – which he liked, a lot, if one judged by the way he moaned and bent into the hold every time it happened – and pulled him roughly in for another kiss, much less languid than their usual fair. 

“You're a fool, witcher,” Emhyr said, irritably. 

But all Geralt replied was a vaguely smug: “Mhm.” 

And for the moment, at least, that was that. 

  


* * *

  


Eskel wrote excusing himself for the winter, as he'd been hired to escort a trip to Ofier. Geralt hoped his visit lacked any princes, toads or toadly princes, and maybe envied him the weather somewhat. Weather in Toussaint was still technically flawless, but maybe something tempestous would be a welcome change of pace. Gaetan wrote as well, which Geralt had not expected but was twice as glad for, promising to join him soon enough, only that he'd gained company in Novigrad and needed to account for it. Geralt could imagine what kind of company he'd gotten, but he was happy nonetheless and sincerely looking forward to that meeting. 

There was no sign of recognition in Regis or Dettlaff when they came strolling down the road, just like they had the year before. 

“Regis,” Geralt called with a small wave as he pushed himself off the bench with a smile. “Dettlaff,” he added, not quite as warm, but only because few in the world were as close to Geralt as Regis, not because Dettlaff himself did not deserve a warm welcome. 

Regis crossed the patio in three strides and wrapped Geralt into a tight hug that did nothing to asuage the terrible deja vu crawling up and down Geralt's spine. Dettlaff declined to offer a hug himself, though he was smiling in amusement at Regis antics, something Geralt assumed had to be a primary pastime of his by that point. 

“It's good to see you, my friend,” Regis said, pulling back to give Geralt a good look. “Retirement does suits you, I think, you look well.” 

“Retirement must not mean what I think it does,” Emhyr muttered sullenly, but more than loud enough to be heard by his superhuman audience. 

“Clearly it doesn't, huh?” Marlene added, as she brought out a tray of tea that Regis graciously took out her hands, “I think we're both going to retire properly before he does.” 

“Hn,” Emhyr said to that, which telegraphed clearly and succintly his thoughts on the matter. 

“Geralt,” Regis said after a moment, reproachful, “do introduce us to your friend.” 

“Ah,” Geralt replied eloquently, staring at both vampires with a sort of awkward look on his face, “right. This is...” He motioned to Emhyr, and paused, considering, before nodding at him and giving him the chance to name himself. 

Geralt felt himself blush slightly, as he realized he'd never actually... asked Emhyr for his name. Now that he had to consciously think about it, he realized that all of Emhyr's little games about Corvo Bianco and its status as prized vineyard in the valley had all been carried out in his name. When he'd lost his memory, he'd accepted the name people insisted was his own with startling ease, because it felt familiar and everyone was calling him that anyway. But with Emhyr, the very nature of his curse made his name... superfluous even. 

Emhyr stared at him when he realized he was expected to provide his own name, and as every time he tried, he reached into his memory and found the space where his name was meant to be, to be empty. He cast a thoughtful look at Geralt, and then let out a soft sigh, as if conceiding a small favor that he'd naturally wish to see repaid eventually. 

“Emhyr,” he said placatingly, even though the word tasted weird and heavy on his tongue, and deep down he wanted to hurl, “my name is Emhyr.” 

The nausea broke into something tangible and constricting as he swayed in place. Geralt caught him with ease, which was fortunate, as he could no longer stand of his own volition, the splitting headache that devoured his senses would not allow it. 

“Fringilla Vigo,” Emhyr hissed just before he passed out, with such quiet, compact hatred packed into the words, that Geralt knew for certain the curse had been broken. 

  


* * *

  


“I feel remarkably stupid,” Geralt admitted, leaning rather than sitting on the desk, arms folded up defensively across his chest. 

“That's because you usually are,” Emhyr sneered at him, but eerily, without bite. 

“You yielded,” Geralt said, ignoring the strange absence of vitriol in the air, “ _you never yield_.” 

“That is hardly true,” Emhyr retorted viciously, “I'm well capable of yielding, provided the results will be worth it.” 

Geralt went very, very still at that. He stared at Emhyr, frowning. 

Emhyr stared back, focused and intent and all the more terrifying because he seemed to be back into full control of his senses. 

They stayed like that for a very long time, simply staring at each other in the eye and conversing in silence about the past year and the many things that had taken place in it. In that bed. 

Then Emhyr looked away, barely disguising it with an elegant shrug of his shoulders. 

“Like I said, when the results are worth the effort.” 

Geralt looked happy. He didn't mean to. Hell, he probably shouldn't. He was fucked, really. Somehow. But still, the slight tug of his lips was upwards, no matter what. 

“And Fringilla?” He asked, the last point of contention. 

“One can only hope she hasn't been made part of Cirilla's personal council,” Emhyr said calmly, far too calmly for someone who'd been made to endure a full year without memories and the entire world forgetting who they were, “but even so, things can be arranged.” 

Geralt gave him a wary look. Arranged sounded so much like a polite euphemism for put her head on a pike, that Geralt had to resist the urge to flinch a little. 

“Please tell me we're not going to Nilfgaard in the middle of fucking winter.” 

Emhyr's lip twitched minutely at that _we_. 

“It doesn't even snow that far south,” he said instead, rather than something truly dangerous, like what he was thinking, “but I suppose we might take some time to assess what remains of the curse, now that it is broken.” 

Geralt nodded. 

“That's... reasonable,” he said slowly, before he pushed himself off the desk and went to sit on the bed. 

“Did you expect me _not_ to be?” Emhyr demanded, in that quiet, slithering voice of his that was everything but demanding and still conveyed it well enough. 

“I've told you,” Geralt said, shrugging, “I just don't... _get_ you.” He allowed himself a wider smile, almost a smirk. “It's half the fun, sometimes.” 

Emhyr reached a hand to grab him by the hair, which Geralt had thought, despite it all, that he'd never do again. Before he could decide to pull him closer or push him away, they felt the earth shake slightly as light burst brightly just outside the door. 

“I'm pretty sure that's your daughter,” Geralt said, with a touch of laughter in his voice. 

“Indeed,” Emhyr replied, but rather than let him go, he tugged once, sharply, and slid his mouth against Geralt's with the same precise, vicious thoroughness that characterized everything he'd ever done. 

  


* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> ...I don't know, man, I mostly made it all up as I went along. Here's hoping it made a tiny bit of sense though.
> 
> #DettlaffDeservedBetter


End file.
